After the Fall

by Patricia Gussin

  On her way to her office—a work in progress while the decorator and his assistants swarmed the space, clearly delighted to depart from manly office furnishings as they envisioned a rose-and-peach-colored décor—Laura stopped for a word with her new secretary. The woman had been devoted to Dr. Minn, and Laura hoped she could eventually fill his shoes. Back in Tampa, her secretary for fifteen years knew all her idiosyncrasies, knew all her kids, knew most of her secrets—but not all.

  The thought of Tampa reminded her of Lonnie Greenwood, who’d called her at Keystone yesterday. Again, leaving a message. Said he was back in Detroit. Needed to talk to her urgently. Wanted to remind her that he was a friend of the Jones family. What will the Joneses do if they find out I killed one of their own? Would it matter if they knew Johnny raped me at knifepoint, threatened my life?

  “Dr. Abdul called you again.” Back in the moment, Laura, listened. “Was very insistent you call her back. The one from Replica, the company that discovered Immunone. Dr. Minn thought very highly of her.”

  “Yes, I know who she is,” said Laura. She caught the woman staring at her bandaged hand, still supported in a sling.

  When would they stop gaping at her disabled hand?

  Another annoyance. Everyone here assumed she knew nothing about Immunone. She’d been the lead clinical investigator, probably knew more than most in the building. “I’ll call her back,” Laura said, moving toward her office.

  “Dr. Abdul, this is Dr. Nelson.”

  “Thanks for returning my call, Dr. Nelson. I hate to bother you, but have you heard anything about Immunone’s approval? I tried calling the FDA, but no one returned my call.”

  “Dr. Abdul, I told you, they don’t want industry calls.”

  “But the FBI called me today. I got worried. Thought something was wrong.”

  Laura thought she meant FDA, not FBI. Why would the FBI be involved? She said nothing, waited.

  “I’m not an American citizen. Oh, I have a green card. Everything legal, but I don’t understand. In your country, can the FDA and the FBI and the CIA work together? Anything to do with the DEA, even though Immunone is not a narcotic? Not even close in its pharmacology.”

  “Whoa,” Laura said. “You have me confused. What did you say about the FBI?”

  “Not really FBI, the police, but aren’t they the same?”

  Laura didn’t intend to advise anyone on law enforcement. “It can be complicated,” she said.

  “Dr. Nelson, I’m scared. I got a call from the police. They want to question me about the murder of Jake Harter’s wife. You know who he is? He’s the FDA man in charge of Immunone. I must know what is happening at the FDA. You speak to these people. You can find out.”

  “But why do the police want to question you?” Laura asked, the pain in her hand diminished now to a level that allowed her to think. And the woman was wrong about Jake Harter; he was not in charge. He was the project manager, not a medical officer.

  “I called his house,” the woman said. “I called his house the day his wife died. They must have traced my call. So they know.”

  “They know what?” Laura asked, perplexed, getting annoyed.

  “That he was…I can’t tell you. Can you call him? Jake Harter?”

  Jake? She called his home? Could this woman be having a relationship with Harter? A real no-no. A flagrant conflict of interest. As a foreigner, the woman may not know it, but Harter’s job would be on the line.

  “No, I can’t do that, Dr. Abdul,” Laura said. “And you should not call him either. As for the police, my only advice is to answer their questions truthfully.” Laura remembered her brief conversation with the attractive Middle Eastern-looking woman at the FDA advisory meeting. She’d had beautiful, dark brown eyes, luxuriant black hair, and a distinctive, husky voice with almost no accent.

  “They want to talk to me tomorrow. At the police station.”

  Why was she telling her this? She hardly knew the woman.

  Laura could hear muffled sobs. “Don’t worry,” she relented. “Call me back on Monday if there’s any connection between the police questions and Immunone. Okay?”

  “Oh, thank you, Dr. Nelson,” the woman said between sniffles.

  How would I feel in a foreign country if the police wanted to question me? Bad enough when you’re in your own home town and have a husband to support you.

  Laura concluded the strange call, returned a few more, then headed up the handsomely curved flight of stairs to the boardroom to meet her fellow Keystone board members.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 29

  The spouse was always the prime suspect, and Jake realized it’d take some time before the dust settled, and Karolee’s case slipped into oblivion. He knew he’d be in for more police questioning, but he hadn’t expected cops at his door at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. Didn’t government employees take weekends off?

  He’d already talked to a mix of detectives. He’d repeated his story ad nauseum, should have recorded it so he could flip on the tape for them. Today he opened the door to the two lead detectives working Karolee’s murder: Detective Nathan Booker, senior of the two, a skinny, balding black man with a hyperactive nervous demeanor; Detective Calvin Finley, pudgy, pasty-white, with a lazy let’s-make-this-quick-and-easy approach.

  He would invite them in, offer them coffee, nothing else. Everything in the house was stale or spoiled. Karolee, being in the restaurant business, had managed their food chain. How many years had it been since he’d seen the inside of a supermarket?

  Once the detectives left today, Jake would decide whether or not it was safe to contact Addie. He missed her more every day, wanted to tell her about his role in Karolee’s death, but, of course, he wouldn’t.

  “Come in, Officers,” he greeted them.

  “Mr. Harter,” the older cop said. “Remember me? Detective Nathan Booker, Rockville PD. My partner, Detective Calvin Finley.”

  “Yes, I remember you both,” Jake said. “Let me take your coats.”

  Jake left them standing as he hung both outer garments in his hall closet, the one just beside where Karolee’s body ended up, and the one leading to his gun cabinet—which the crime scene techs had not discovered. The crime scene residue was all gone now, thanks to the cleaning crew the Limelight Bistro had sent to restore order to the house.

  Booker and Finley wore suits, button-down shirts, no ties—maybe in deference to the weekend. Booker’s suit was pressed, his shirt crisp; Finley looked like a slob in his baggy suit and a wrinkled graying-white shirt. Neither wore a smile.

  “Sit,” Jake suggested, his demeanor perfectly relaxed, cooperative. “Would you like coffee? I was about to make some.”

  They nodded a yes, and Jake was glad for the diversion. Thankfully, coffee was the one kitchen chore he could manage. “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Neither,” said Booker, the skinny, elderly one.

  “Both,” said the younger, overweight Finley.

  Jake left them in the living room while he took his time brewing the coffee and locating powdered creamer.

  “You’ve been back at work, Mr. Harter?” Booker said. “The FDA. Seems rather soon, but I hear in the news an important drug for organ transplants is about to get approved. You involved in that?”

  “I am,” said Jake, not sure whether he should highlight his key role or let it slide.

  “I have two daughters with PhDs from Howard. Biochemistry, both of them. Just finishing up. One works in a drug company, discovering new drugs like the one you’re working on. The other just got hired as a research scientist at Georgetown. Gotta admit, I’m proud of those girls. Since I caught this case, and since you’re in the drug business, I’ve been asking them some questions. So I’m up on that new drug, Immunone.”

  Great. A detective who does his homework.

  “Well, don’t worry. I’m not going to grill you about your job. I know all that’s confidential. Working in the government sec
tor, you have to be careful about everything you say. Right, Calvin?”

  Detective Finley had slumped back into the chair, but hearing his name, he rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  “My young partner here has a new baby at home. Doesn’t get much sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Finley said, “so let’s get this over with, Booker. You want to start or what?”

  Booker sat back. “Why don’t you lead off? I’ll jump in if I think of something.”

  Finley went over the whole scenario. Went over the timeline. Twice. When did Jake leave work? When did his car break down? How long did he wait before getting help? Did he ask anyone else for help before Frank Barker? How long did it take the tow truck to get there? Jake knew they’d have verified all the timing with the Good Samaritan, the phone company, the tow truck company, the garage, maybe even McDonald’s where he’d stopped for a Big Mac and fries.

  Finley had just asked what time Jake found the body.

  “Eight forty-five, eight fifty, about that time,” Jake said.

  “You trip over her?” Booker interrupted. “Or what?”

  “Uh, what?” Jake said, needing time to think. The lights. What had he told the cops about the lights? Had the porch lights been on? Yes. Had the hall light inside been on? Shit, he couldn’t remember what he’d told them before. He’d only trip on the body if the lights had been off. “Not exactly trip. I didn’t fall down, but my shoe bumped…her head.”

  Yes, her head had been facing the front door.

  “So did you see her the moment you stepped inside?” Booker asked.

  “Not really. I must have been distracted. My foot touched her first.” Jake lowered his head, made himself sniffle. “Look, Detectives, I’m trying to be as helpful as I can. I want you to find out who did this to Karolee, but to relive finding her, this is so difficult. Hard realizing I’ll never see her alive, that she’s gone—”

  “Yeah,” Finley said. “Just doin’ our jobs. Gotta be rough, losin’ your wife this way.”

  “We do intend to find whoever murdered your wife,” Booker said, “and get a conviction. Now, who is Adawia Abdul?”

  Jake felt his face change. Involuntarily, but noticeably. Both sets of eyes boring into him. Bingo?

  “Dr. Abdul?” Jake repeated. Of course, he’d be expected to know her. She’d attended the early FDA meeting on Immunone. How much to tell them? Why had they introduced her?

  “Yes,” said Finley.

  “And she’s…?” Booker prompted.

  “She’s a research scientist at Replica Laboratories. She came to the FDA meetings on Immunone before Keystone Pharma took it over.”

  “How well do you know her?” Finley asked.

  Why were they interested in Addie? For a moment, terror struck. Had Karolee found out about Addie? Had she told someone? Left some record? Knowing Karolee, the vindictive bitch could have hired a private investigator. Were there pictures of him and Addie in some PI’s report being circulated within the Rockville City Police Department? For a moment, Jake let his thoughts drift from his own predicament to Addie’s. What if those incriminating photos got back to her father in Iraq? Addie would be shamed. Maybe banished from her family. Maybe that would be good, Jake thought, letting a faint smile creep across his face. Daddy disowns her, he marries her, they keep her Immunone money.

  “I saw her last at the FDA Advisory Committee I organized. Friday, February 14th,” Jake said.

  “Why would she call you at home on Wednesday night? The night your wife was killed?”

  Addie called him the night he killed Karolee? She knew Karolee was out of town and she’d expected him to spend the night at her apartment. He hadn’t showed and she’d called him? Made sense. She had no way to know the cops had taken over his house, made it a crime scene. Addie, you really screwed up.

  Jake shook his head. “Don’t know,” he said. “Something about the drug I’m working on? It came out of her lab.”

  “Does she do this often? Call you at home. At night?”

  “Certainly not,” Jake said, a shrug of his shoulders, an appearance of nonchalance.

  “Realize that we’ll check phone records,” Booker stated.

  Jake took account. Karolee routinely scoured all their bills, all their records, so he’d never called Addie from home. To his knowledge, she’d never called him. He’d called her occasionally from the FDA, but usually he used a pay phone to connect with her, make their plans. Same with Addie. She’d call from a phone near the Metro on her way to or from work. Usually. He’d had to reinforce with her a few times how they had to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest. How important it was for both of them. Each time, he’d faced a why-all-that-nonsense look. The detectives probably would find calls to him from her home or her office to his office. How many he didn’t know. He’d have to explain them away.

  “Dr. Abdul is not an American citizen,” Jake said. “She’s unclear on why she shouldn’t just call the FDA and get an update on her drug’s progress.”

  “What’s her interest?” Booker asked. “Her company sold the drug to Keystone Pharma.”

  “The way I understand it, when the drug is approved, she gets a milestone payment. That’s all I know. I had to stop her from giving me confidential information. I don’t know if what she’s told me—or was going to tell me—is public or not, but I didn’t want to hear it.” To emphasize the point, Jake put his hands over his ears.

  Finley let out a low whistle. “The plot thickens.”

  Stupid remark from a stupid cop. Jake had to steer this conversation away from Addie.

  “Look, I’m not sure why she’d call me. This is all speculation. What can you tell me about Karolee’s murder investigation? You must have suspects. Somebody breaks into my house, kills my wife—”

  Booker held up his hand. “We’re working on it. Following up all leads. Brought in the Montgomery County PD for back-up. Trust me, Mr. Harter, your wife’s murder is a high priority.”

  “And we’ll interrogate this Adawia Abdul,” Finley said, checking his watch. “See if she leads us in a new direction,” Finley said.

  “More coffee?” Jake asked, glancing at three empty cups.

  To his relief, Finley stood, waited for Booker to do likewise. “Thank you, Mr. Harter,” Booker said. “We’ll be back. You’re our strongest link to Karolee’s last moment in life.”

  Jake retrieved their coats and, without another word, they left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 29

  Twenty-six years ago, Badur Hammadi and his twin brother Malik had been selected to attend a prestigious private high school, and then sent to study finance on scholarships to the University of Baghdad. Their mother moved, all expenses paid, from a hovel in the slum where they’d been born, to a lovely garden apartment in central Baghdad. Badur still could recall how they had to learn to use the appliances in their new kitchen.

  The brothers had excelled, graduated at the top of their class; their mother had been proud and, for a brief few days after their graduation, happy. In school, they had led as carefree a life as two young men could in turbulent political times in Iraq, paying little attention to their benefactors, military types who made periodic visits to their mother’s home. While trying to focus on their education in finance, they couldn’t help but be drawn into explosive political discussions. They steered as neutral a path as possible, wanting to avoid trouble, and stay as far away as possible from the bloody coups and mass executions. As much as they could, they ignored the escalating tension between the Arab Socialist Union Party and the Ba’athist leader Saddam Hussein.

  Two days after the boys’ graduation, while they waited their government job assignments, an aggressive military contingent arrived at their home. There, an officer read their orders. Malik would be inducted into the civilian wing of the Ba’ath Party—the party Saddam would take over within the next three years. Good. But when Badur’s fate became clear, the mother’s smile disappeared
, and then she collapsed. The party was exiling him to America, perhaps planting him there for future use. That had been twenty-one years ago, 1971.

  Twenty-six hours ago, Badur had said good-bye to his wife Shada and his two sons, seven-year-old Ali and four-year-old Sam, at the British Airways departure gate, Detroit Metro Airport. That had been Thursday night and three flights—a stopover in London and another in Amman—before the Royal Jordanian Airlines plane landed at Saddam International Airport. He’d never been able to sleep on planes or in airports, nor did he function well when sleep deprived.

  During the trip, he’d been plagued by the recurrent ping-pong game that more frequently played in his head. The Middle East. North America. Back and forth. Iraq. The United States. Although a naturalized United States citizen as of five years ago, “Dru,” as he now thought of himself, had never severed his strong ties to his homeland. Ties of love and devotion: his widowed mother and his twin brother Malik. And ties of indenture. Dru had never been given a written copy of the orders read by the officer twenty-one years ago in his mother’s apartment. But he needed none. He had memorized every detail then and there, in 1971.

  “Badur Hammadi,” a gruff male voice caught Dru’s attention as he approached immigration. “Come.” A man of few words spoken in clipped Arabic. Dru wondered how his Arabic sounded now that he’d been in the West for so long. He and his brother would have to compare accents. When they were young, no one could tell who was speaking, Malik or Badur. No one called him “Dru” back then. Even now when calling home, he had to caution his wife not to slip and call him “Dru.” He wouldn’t be surprised if nickname use was against some Islamic law.